


Larger Near the Horizon

by megyal



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-11
Updated: 2008-07-11
Packaged: 2017-10-28 10:54:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/307126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megyal/pseuds/megyal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>spittingink@lj prompt of 'moon'.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Larger Near the Horizon

**Author's Note:**

> spittingink@lj prompt of 'moon'.

On the days that Patrick had an exam or an early shift, like today, Pete was the one who made the coffee. As a matter of fact, he always made the coffee, since he'd be the first one up in any case, shuffling to the kitchen in those dim hours of the morning, when everything was clothed in ragged grey. He would stare at the coffee-maker as if he had never seen it before, blinking blearily until his brain found first gear and he opened the cupboard right over his head, reaching in for the coffee.

He would sit at the kitchen table they had salvaged from the dump; his tattered bathrobe would be surreptitiously trying to slide off his shoulders as his fingers traced the deep gouges they had never bothered to sand away, those names that people had carved into the wood as if they could somehow preserve themselves forever (SHAWN '97; LAUREL LOVES MARK). When the coffee-maker made its final gurgle, sounding more like a death-knell than the end of a cycle, and it switched off, he searched for Patrick's mug and filled it three-quarters of the way with the dark, heavenly-smelling coffee, and then sloshed some milk on top, because Patrick was a complete baby who didn't like his coffee too hot.

He would trudge to Patrick's room, the mug held securely in both his hands and he would push open Patrick's door with one foot. Patrick was more the type to use obstacles that would stop any potential invader, instead of actually locking his door, strewing clothes and shoes across the floor. Pete would pick his way across a battlefield of personal paraphernalia, and maybe confront that haughty kitten that Patrick said he adopted (but really, the kitten apparently was labouring under the illusion that _it_ had adopted _them_ , and suffered their presence with a sneering attitude).

He would place the coffee on top of Patrick's shelves; actually, they weren't really shelves, they were shallow wooden crates. Patrick had convinced Joe to help him carry them from where someone had discarded them in a nearby alley across the street, up the steep set of stairs to the tiny apartment. He had placed them on them on their sides: open tops facing out, stacking them on top of each other, three across and three up. Pete thought it had been a clever thing, but Patrick admitted to only doing it because he couldn't afford to get some real shelves. Pete still thought it was pretty fucking smart.

Now, Pete set the coffee on the very top of the crates; he ambled over to the curtains and yanked them apart, letting in dusty streams of sunlight.

"Rise and shine, Stumpy-licious." He didn't speak very loudly, just a low mutter; Patrick still shifted, however, snuggling down even more into the covers until Pete grabbed onto the edges and hauled them off.

"You got an exam," Pete pointed out good-naturedly when Patrick sat up with bloody murder in his eyes. "Get the hell up, Patrick."

"Fuck you," Patrick predictably said in a furry voice, eyes half-lidded. "I went to bed like one hour ago, fuck the fuck off."

The kitten, a ball of reddish fluff, padded out from the waste-land that existed underneath Patrick's bed and made a huge yawn, nearly toppling over. It staggered over to Pete and sniffed disdainfully at his bare toes, before deciding that he wasn't even worth the time. Pete watched it go over to a random sandal and stick its head right in, trying to crawl under the leather arch. Joe had named the kitten Duke Aerosmith Coldplay The Fourteenth when Patrick had come home with it, and Patrick had been affronted when Pete had laughingly said that the kitten was just like Patrick: tiny, sandy-haired and viciously vindictive.

Pete didn't know how he did it, but Patrick must have convinced the Duke to throw up in a pile of Pete's clothes a few minutes after he made the remark. At least, if he had to go by the smug look that had come over both their faces, that is.

Now, Patrick was working his way up to a mighty fine bitch-fit as he struggled out of bed. He finally managed to get his legs over the side, feet flat on the floor as he remained sitting on the bed.

"Fuck it," he said in that same thick, sleepy tone. "Just fuck it. I didn't even get to go over that last chapter, and you know what? With my luck, it'll be on the exam. I know it. Duke, get out of that."

The Duke ignored Patrick.

"And I got a shift down at the store later. I just can't fucking manage. I'm _tired_ ," he whined and flopped back on the bed, arms spread out. "I hate education."

Pete went over and bent over him, reaching and grasping him around his wrists. He pulled him up; Patrick didn't even help, he let himself go limp. His skin was very warm under Pete's hands.

"Dude, just get up. This is what, your last exam? First year in college, always a pain. It'll get better."

Patrick simply gave a grunt of disbelief.

"Hey," Pete continued casually, "and we got a show to do this evening, so. You know."

Instantly, Patrick's lethargy fell away and he turned large eyes to Pete; the expression in his eyes was mixture of excited anticipation and a deep-set anxiety that bordered on terror. "Yeah, I remember that," he said, obviously trying to sound as nonchalant as Pete. Pete grinned at him, then stuck a quick, careful finger right in the inside corner of Patrick's eye to drag out some morning-crust; he laughed as Patrick yelled and flailed.

"That's fucking gross!" Patrick shrieked, knuckling the offended eye. His cry startled the Duke, who leapt out of the sandal and scurried back under the bed. "Why do you always do that shit?!"

Pete cheerfully wiped his finger on Patrick's grey t-shirt. "Because I always get the same reaction. There's your coffee, loser."

"Go jump on a pole ass-first, dickweed," Patrick advised him, but he looked pretty grateful when Pete got up, retrieved the coffee and handed it to him.

*

Joe held the door open for Pete as Pete wrestled Patrick through it, making sure that Patrick didn't trip over the first step on the narrow staircase to the apartment, it was kinda high. If Patrick was coherent, he would have demanded that they stop at the tiny ice-cream shop downstairs and get something with about a truckload of sprinkles; unfortunately Patrick and coherency were about as far apart as the East was from the West at this point in time. All he could do was keep his arms slung around Pete's neck, mumbling nonsense and giggling ever so often.

"Shit," Pete said and kind of propped Patrick against the small expanse of wall beside the apartment door when they finally got to their landing, the first one.

"You okay?" Joe called up the staircase. "I'm gonna go, so you guys okay?"

"Yeah... wait, I can't find the keys." Pete turned out every pocket he had, and then went through Patrick's front ones.

"Ohhh, no not there," Patrick slurred and then turned around, pressing his cheek against the wall and sticking his butt out a little. "The left."

Pete slipped his fingers into the left back pocket; Patrick writhed and snickered some more. "The other left! Not that one, the other one!"

Pete rolled his eyes and fished around until he found Patrick's keys, three bright silver ones on a key ring.

"Okay, we're good!" He yelled this down at Joe. "Tomorrow, right?"

"Yeah," Joe returned and closed the street-door carefully.

Pete managed to unlock the door with an armful of laughing Patrick, who had apparently found Joe's parting word the height of hilarity.

"You're such a fucking pansy, you can't drink a couple beers without getting wasted?"

"I'm not even supposed to be drinking," Patrick told him, looking severe very suddenly, as Pete tried to maneuver him around the old armchair. "You're not supposed to let me drink, I'm only eighteen. You're a bad role model, Peter Wentz. Bad. I'm not supposed to be drinking!" He raised his voice as if Pete had contradicted him. "I don't even like it!"

"Shut _up_ , stop yelling in my ear." Pete grimly kicked open Patrick's door.

"It's not even good for my voice," Patrick rambled on. Pete deposited him on the bed and he tried to curl up in it, but Pete prevented him from doing so. He made a complaining little whine, but Pete ignored him, tugging his sneakers off and wrinkling his nose at one of Patrick's toes sticking out of a hole in the sock. "I think I might have a good voice, you know? I don't want to spoil it, because if I do I wouldn't be able to sing any more for the band and we won't have any more nice shows. Tonight was a nice show," he concluded dreamily. "I liked that crowd, they were awesome."

"Yeah." Pete tugged off the other shoe and tossed it away, hoping he didn't squash the Duke with it or something. There was no complaining squall, so the Duke was still rocking and a-rolling somewhere. "You sounded great."

He was kneeling at Patrick's feet, and Patrick seized him by the hair at the top of his head. Pete winced, batted at his hands, but Patrick tilted back his head so that they could look each other in the eye.

"Really?" Patrick whispered hoarsely, eyes wide and watering slightly. "Really? I mean, you _really_ think so?"

Pete peeled his fingers out of his hair. "Yeah. Owww-ow-ow, yeah, you did. Of course I think so, man, come on."

"That's so nice." Patrick's fingers crept back, now cupping Pete's face in his palms. " _You're_ so nice. You're so nice, you kiss everybody, even boys. You want a kiss for yourself?"

"Uh," Pete said, and could hardly pull back in time before Patrick's mouth kind of fell upon his, wet and warm and soft. He knelt there on the ground, almost frozen completely as Patrick pressed another happy, clumsy kiss to his slack lips and pulled back, grinning.

He patted Pete's jaw affectionately. "You're so nice. I better get my kisses in while you're at the horizon."

Pete, who was used to being the source of all confusion, stared up at him. Patrick, his touch oddly gentle for someone who was drunk, turned Pete's head towards the window, which still had the curtains drawn apart. It was fairly early in the night, and the moon had just risen, a fabulous silver disk that looked huge in its pre-summer glory. When it rose further, it would not seem as close as it was now.

"That's you," Patrick whispered in the tone of a conspirator. "Right now, you look super close, but one day you'll be so far up and so far away, you know? I don't want to go to school any more," he continued into this seeming _non sequitur_. "I know what I want to do for the rest of my life. I want to be in this stupid band and just play stupid music."

"Okay," Pete said in the same kind of whisper. "We can do that. I mean, I've done it already. My dad's all pissed, but it's done."

"Hmm," Patrick said and kissed him again, on the cheek this time. Pete wasn't sure what to make of it. Usually, Patrick was the more reserved one, hardly given to bouts of physical affection. And he didn't get drunk a lot; as a matter of fact, this was the first time since Patrick had moved in after his graduation that Pete had seen him get kind of wasted. It was a little funny and a little disturbing all at the same time.

"Schooool's out for summer!" Patrick sang under his breath, melodious and sure even in this state. They both laughed this time and Pete allowed Patrick one more kiss before he pushed him back to lie down on the bed.

"No more kisses." Patrick's voice was the epitome of sleepy contentment. " _You_ kiss _me_ from here on out."

Pete grinned down at him. "Dude, you don't even know what you've unleashed."

Patrick reached out and dragged him down, snuggling up to him the way a child would cuddle a favourite teddy-bear. "Shhhh, no talking. No more drinking like that for me either, I'm done. Gotta take care of my voice better, y'know? It's important."

"I know." Pete grimaced as Patrick settled right against him, warm and solid and comfortably soft, his hair tickling against Pete's nose. He was uncomfortable, with one arm stuck underneath Patrick, and he figured he wouldn't fall asleep that way at all.

He did, anyway; and when he woke up the next morning, his arm had gone to sleep under Patrick, who rarely moved while he was at rest. One side of Pete's body was sweaty underneath his clothes; that side had been pressed right against Patrick, who gave off heat like an oven. He rolled Patrick away just a little with his free hand, as gently as he could to not wake him, and regained his arm, making faces as the pins and needles started up.

He took a good look down at Patrick's face; his long pale lashes, and his unexpectedly red mouth. Pete impulsively pressed a kiss to the corner of that mouth and smiled when Patrick muttered in his sleep: "No, I put it out back, Mom, Kevin didn't do it right."

He slipped out of Patrick's bed, stepping deftly around the Duke's sneak attack from under the bed. The kitten liked to lay in waiting just underneath the bed, until some unsuspecting person's feet were near by; then he would pounce with a snarl, give a good bite, and scatter back under the bed while its victim howled in pain. The Duke never did that to Patrick, but Pete was almost always the enemy.

"You missed, furball," he told the Duke, who slunk back under the bed, defeated. Patrick gave a single long snore, and turned over onto his stomach. In a few hours, he'd be awake and hung-over and a complete cranky monster, glaring at everything and nothing at the same time. Pete padded out to the kitchen, and started the coffee.

Through the small kitchen window, he could see the dream-like white face of the moon as it was setting. He smiled faintly in its distant direction, and got to making Patrick's coffee, not too hot, just the way he liked it.

 _fin_.


End file.
